Death, Family, and Other Concerns
by RandomW07
Summary: Iceland is no stranger to death. Why, then, does it terrify him so? If his family truly loves him, why does he feel like an outcast? Worry plagues his thoughts, keeps him from sleep, a constant presence in his life. It's normal, they say, they've all been there. Why, then, is it so hard for him to open up to them?


**Author's Note: I've recently been watching the anime again, and decided to try writing Iceland for a change. This was written before lectures, so it's not as polished as I would have liked, and it turned out more angsty than planned, but I'm happy with how it turned out!**

**Please enjoy! And happy studying for anyone with exams coming up!**

**Warnings: Iceland thinks about the concept of death a lot (not suicide, just death in general), so if that disturbs you, this may not be ideal. **

* * *

Iceland is no stranger to death. War, famine, disease, drowning, burning, the list of ends to his short existence could go on forever. Sometimes, death is painful, leaving him to suffer for hours before granting him mercy. Other times, it's swift, unnoticeable, a flash and he's waking up to his government officials at his side with a thousand questions they can't wait to shoot at him. Sometimes, his body needs weeks of rest before it recovers properly, the nerves, bones and muscle too damaged to heal quickly. Other times, it takes them only a few hours to knit back together. He's heard some nations see people they once knew, powerful entities they've heard legends of, when they pass, though he catches only glimpses of the abyss.

Death leaves nothing but trouble in its wake. Sudden unexplained international tensions in need of cooling, strange weather patterns that cannot be explained, sightings of a man last seen in the morgue. All it takes is for the press and the police to cooperate for the death of Emil Steilsson to be announced to the world, only for that very same man to be seen at the local supermarket two months later. Conspiracy theories blossom in the vast domain of the Internet as people muse the existence of immortals, posting photos as proof. A governmental conspiracy, many claim. A cure for mortality only the rich can afford. As creative as humans may be, not one comes close to the truth.

The nations still try to shut down these discussions when they can, before they spread and infest the minds of humans with false assumptions. Humans struggle enough with the concept of nationhood without fake news modifying their assumptions. Someday, Iceland thinks, the world will know of their existence, but he prays that day won't come for many more eons. Who knows how his people would react? Would they hate him? Venerate him? Blame him for the woes that have befallen his home? No, it's best for them not to know of his existence, of _their_ existence.

Iceland often wishes death works as it does in video games. A reset button of some sort. You die, you wake up again, you go back, and you fix things. As could be guessed, this isn't the case. Death doesn't wash away the mistakes of the past, doesn't turn back the tides of time so relationships could be as they once were. Nations awake to an aching body and a fuzzy mind, soon to be struck by an onslaught of information they missed while in the realm of the deceased. Sometimes, memories don't return straight away. Questions bubble away in the back of their mind, the answers not necessarily jumping out them. What are they doing here? How did they die? Who killed them? Who are they? _What_ are they?

There are broken relationships in need of repairing, wounded egos in need of soothing. Governments to appease. Friends and family to reassure. Excuses to come up with. Mountains of paperwork wait patiently on their desk, but it takes twice as long to complete because the secret services knock on their door every hour so, with a long list of questions they've asked a thousand times before. Medical professionals keep a close eye on them, in case they take a sudden turn for the worst. Psychologists sit down in front of them with a notebook and a pen, willing to listen if that accidental death wasn't all that it seemed.

In short, death is a hassle. And yet, Iceland thinks as he helps Norway carry Denmark to his room, without death, he never would have noticed the small things that shed light on the strange group of people he calls family.

He would never have realised how much Norway loathes death, as he listens to his usual placid brother spit curses to entities long gone or soon to disappear. He never would have understood why Sweden is never present when it's time to clean up the corpse, had he not spotted the man slip out in search of the prettiest flowers he could find to place in a vase for when the defunct nation wakes up again. He never would have seen how Finland treats the micronations like nations, pulling them to the side and explaining the situation to them, leaving them plenty of time to ask questions.

He never would have realised how much light Denmark brings into the world, with his silly jokes, infectious laugh and ever-present smile.

Death is ugly. It paints Denmark's skin a sickly shade of grey, dimming the joyful spark in his eyes and laying to rest the energy that thrums through him. His body is stiff and heavy as the brothers lay him down on the bed, limbs reluctantly stretching out so he can be comfortable when he returns among them.

"He'll wake up this evening," Norway tells Iceland repeatedly, the words growing softer and softer each time he says them. "What an idiot."

Iceland hovers nervously, unsure as to what he should be doing, as Norway flutters from one end of the room to the other, tucking Denmark under the covers, fluffing up his pillows, fetching him a glass of water in case he comes back early, the bowl of fruit from downstairs. He smothers the man in blankets, rummages through the wardrobe to ensure the Dane's favourite clothes are clean and ready for him to wear. He lets Denmark's cat inside, talks to things only he appears to see, before finally mentioning for Iceland to leave.

"Let him rest. We'll see how he's doing later."

It's odd, to see his brother shower Denmark in affection like this. It reminds Iceland that he still doesn't understand their relationship, what makes them tick. They aren't like Sweden and Finland, who act so in love it can be disconcerting, especially considering the time it's taken them to put their past behind them and focus on their compatibility as people. They've never been like Sealand and his childish crush on Wy, sweet and innocent. They are fire and water, silence and shouting, they make no sense together.

Norway constantly pushes Denmark away. He complains about his voice, his immaturity, his hair, his lack of intelligence. Every word that spills from his lips forms an insult, and when words can no longer express his exasperation, he conveys his irritation by a light punch to the shoulder. Yet Denmark acts oblivious to his open hostility, laughs it off as though it were a joke, pesters Norway anyway. He shows off, constantly tries to impress his companion, thinks he's a knight and Norway's the maiden like in those old fairytales that have long since fallen out of style. They talk to each other, yet they seem to do so in a language foreign to the other.

Denmark deserves better. The spark he uses to light people's days shouldn't be doused by the bitter words spouted by the man he dedicates himself to. He deserves someone who appreciates his optimism, his determination to cheer everyone up, his silly antics that can occasionally pull a laugh from Iceland's throat.

Norway deserves better. He needs space, someone who respects his need for silence, who doesn't clamour for his attention like a three-year-old child. Such a peaceful soul shouldn't be disturbed by the impulsive energy of the man he chooses to spend his time with.

They simply don't work. Such is the conclusion many nations, including Iceland, eventually come to. To give them some credit, it's easy to think that way, because their love for each other hides behind closed doors, behind a lifetime of work they keep secret from everyone else.

They haven't worked as a couple for centuries. Countless reasons can explain this, including all those Iceland and his fellow nations have thought up over the years, and other reasons regarding their status as nations. But numerous as they may be, they can be summarized by one simple phrase: their lack of understanding for one another.

Denmark doesn't respect Norway's desire for personal space because he doesn't understand it. He thrives on attention, needs the conversation and company people provide. For him, being alone equates to loneliness, the one feeling he hates above all else. Silence in another's company is always awkward, tense. Why _wouldn't_ you talk to someone if you're sitting in the same room and don't see each other often?

Norway snaps at Denmark's optimism because for him it's synonymous with naivety and incompetence. He views the world with cynicism, because reality is cruel, harsh, has little care for the people who live in it. To view it in any other way suggests an obliviousness to the state of things. His bitter words are meant to enlighten his companion, so he doesn't crash like Norway once did.

They are like the sun and the moon, dusk and dawn. Opposites they may be, they compliment each other in ways that to a casual onlooker may seem obvious, but foreign to the nations in question.

It takes a good number of arguments before they finally attempt to communicate properly with one another. They've known each other longer than they've known anybody else, so they're aware of some things, but oblivious about other aspects. Gradually, they learn to respect their boundaries, ease up on things that upset the other. But, at the same time, they argue more, complain to their respective circle of friends how they find each other annoying. Thus, people think they hate each other, or at the very least that they don't like each other much. They fail to see how two people who argue so frequently could possibly be in love.

What they fail to notice is the lack of toxicity in their arguments. They seek not to wound each other with their words or actions, but to try to make the other understand something he never will. They grow frustrated when their words fall on deaf ears, but they don't give up. Again and again, they reformulate their words so that one day, it will finally click.

They're honest with one another, even if it may seem incomprehensible to others in the way it manifests itself. Instead of more a diplomatic approach, Norway will say "your hair looks like crap" or Denmark will say "only old guys wear jumpers like that". And yet neither are offended by the harsh words, and often, neither pay any attention to what's said. Denmark continues to style his hair in ways that cause others to stare, and Norway continues to wear hideous jumpers people assume to be presents he's too polite to throw away.

Sometimes, they overstep their boundaries. One time, Norway snaps at Denmark to "shut up, for once in your life", paying no mind to the hurt it causes, and doesn't apologize for it afterwards. Denmark leaves without another word, back to his home where he drowns his sorrows in alcohol for a month, perceiving the poorly chosen words as rejection.

The next time they're sitting in Norway's living room together, after talking things out, the platinum blond murmurs, "need some quiet now, if you don't mind". Instead of complaining about it, like he usually does, Denmark says almost quietly, "no problem. Want me to go upstairs or am I fine just sitting here?". It's progress, even if it doesn't seem like it to the two men.

With communication comes compromise. They don't share a bed; Denmark kicks in his sleep, and Norway tosses and turns for hours until sleep finds him. They do, however, sit together on the sofa, with Denmark's legs and arms wrapped around his companion, pulling him close but giving him enough freedom to read his book or sort through important papers. Denmark's shoulder becomes a pillow, Norway lets him run his fingers through his hair. The compromise between an overdose of affection and no touch whatsoever has finally been found.

However, most people don't hear the long talks, don't see the peaceful interactions they save for when they're alone. Most people see only the sharp words and irritating pesters they assume are unwanted.

Maybe, then, death has a positive side. It shows Iceland that his brother does think fondly of the loud Danish man. He worries the afternoon away, tapping his feet against the floor, checking up on his companion every few minutes, tidying the house until no one will be able to find where they left their valuables tomorrow. He mutters under his breath, sporadically reassures Iceland that Denmark will wake up soon and there's no need to worry about it. Eventually, Sweden pulls him aside, calmly explains that he's stressing everyone out, and he spends the rest of the evening in the kitchen, out of everyone's way, baking cookies and cakes and so many sweet things he could give a whole army diabetes.

And when Denmark wakes up in the early hours of the morning, Norway is the first at his side, berating him for his carelessness. As ritual dictates, the recently deceased simply grumbles something incoherent before wrapping his arms around Norway's waist and pulling him into bed with him, ignoring the surprised squeak his actions provoke.

Instead of protesting, however, Norway curls into his embrace, humming a soft tune into his lover's neck. It feels wrong to linger when they're like this, as though the other Nordics are intruding in something intimate they aren't meant to see. Iceland quickly scurries out of the room. There will be plenty of time to chat later.

He doesn't think he will ever understand them. Though perhaps it's for the best.

Even more confusing than the nature of the relationship between Norway and Denmark is the notion of family. Families are rarely permanent, shifting and fluctuating with the years and seasons. One century, Sweden and Denmark are brothers, the next, enemies. One century, Iceland considers all the Nordics family, the next, only Denmark and Norway, and the century after that one, Denmark stands alone as caretaker. For a long time, Iceland didn't even think he had family, considering how often they abandoned him with empty promises they never planned on keeping.

And yet, after all these years, the Nordics cling stubbornly to the idea that they are a family. They spend Christmas in Sweden's house in the forest, the New Year at Denmark's home in Copenhagen, and alternate between Finland and Norway's homes for other holidays. They poke fun at each other like family members do, play board games that often end in friendly arguments until sleep beckons them. They pick films to watch on cold evenings, go for long hikes where they take turns musing about the past and pointing out changes since the last time they walked that trail. They collect shells and rocks at the seaside, compete for who can catch the biggest fish in lakes. They pretend they're humans, not nations, put aside their less important papers and ask their boss to phone them only in the event of an emergency.

And yet Iceland isn't certain he fits in. All things considered, he's rather, well, normal. Apart from his ashen hair and violet eyes, he doesn't stand out from the crowd. People rarely notice him, rarely take an interest in him. Compare that to his family: Denmark's loud and annoying, Sweden scowls constantly and rarely talks, Finland can be a happy ball of sunshine one moment and talk about disturbing ideas without flinching the next, Sealand's convinced he's a nation, Ladonia pretends he doesn't know them, and Norway's just plain weird. They're hardly a normal, functional family.

Some days, Iceland thinks of Liechtenstein and her sane, normal brother. Other days, he thinks of Hong Kong and the chaos his siblings create. At least Norway isn't that overbearing.

Can Iceland have two families? Or must he choose between them? Because to him, Turkey is just as much family as Denmark or Norway. More, even. He considers Turkey a father, has done ever since the two first began chatting more often. Iceland tells the Mediterranean nation things he can't bring himself to tell the Nordics, expresses concerns and fears that feel too silly for anyone to take them seriously. The advice he receives may be biased but can mostly be considered good advice.

And aren't friends family of a kind? Hong Kong, Liechtenstein, Taiwan, Seychelles. Over the years, they've bonded over their similarities, the minor issues that come from resembling teenagers, music and games they enjoy. They meet up regularly to attend music festivals their respective families claim to be too old to go to, sneak into lectures at universities in each other's countries. They laugh and chat and play drinking games, pretending, like all nations do, that they're simply five teenagers with no major concerns to lose sleep over.

Perhaps it's alright to have multiple families. Or maybe friends will be friends and family will be family. Perhaps he doesn't belong with the other Nordics; he's too different from them.

He settles down on the sofa, pulling out his phone to check whether Hong Kong is active or not. In the background, Sealand calls Hana outside for a game of fetch, briefly asking Ladonia to join them, only for the other micronation to refuse, fingers tapping away furiously at his keyboard. Timo hums to himself as he polishes his guns, while Sweden cooks dinner in silence. A cosy, comforting scene. They could almost be mistaken for humans.

But soon enough Denmark is stomping downstairs, passing a hand through his hair and speaking in rapid angry Danish to the person on the other end of the phone. Iceland understands the words that spill out of his lips easily, despite the modern twang it now has. His boss wants him back in Denmark. His government want to ensure he's safe, that it was only an accident, that it wasn't attempted murder.

Denmark begrudgingly promises his boss he'll board the next plane, then cheerfully tells his family he'll be back before they know it. And then he's gone, back to Denmark, back to the responsibilities of nationhood. And suddenly it's impossible to forget they're nations.

The next morning, Norway packs his bags, claiming his troll needs his advice on something or another. One of his usual nonsensical excuses. Iceland doesn't understand why he lies instead of simply admitting he's tired of their company, but oh well, it's Norway. Since when has he ever made sense?

Iceland leaves not long after, because it's awkward without Norway and Denmark. He feels like an intruder in the small family Finland and Sweden have created. Back home he goes, to an empty house and grey skies.

Back to the responsibilities of nationhood once more.

* * *

Iceland dies for the first time in a century one October afternoon.

He can't quite recall what happened when he wakes up, doesn't understand why he's suddenly in a warm bed with his brother hovering over him and Mr. Puffin sleeping in the crook of his arm. The air smells of heather and the ocean breeze, not quite home, but almost. Home as it used to be, before Norway left, before Iceland was free.

"What happened?"

Talking hurts his throat. His lungs are burning, his vision blurry. He must have died, but how? When? What's Norway doing here?

"You drowned. Think you were trying to help an animal of some kind."

Oh yes, he remembers now. What an embarrassing way to die.

"And why are you here?"

He doesn't mean for the words to sound as harsh as they do, but Norway seems unconcerned. Confusion distorts his face for an instant.

"I'm your brother. Why wouldn't I be here?"

Norway doesn't berate him until he's fully recovered. When he does, he speaks in the same monotonous tone as always, except a hint of worry now weaves between his words. Iceland wonders, briefly, whether he was the one to find his corpse, before dismissing the idea. He'd been swallowed by the ocean; there's no way Norway could navigate the sea with enough accuracy to find him.

He wonders how nations cope during times of war. Although he's seen plenty of wars, he's been fortunate enough never to find himself on the battlefield. Consequently, he's never witnessed a messy death. He shudders to think of the gruesome corpses other nations must have uncovered in the aftermath of a battle. He recalls something Finland once told him, about how sometimes, nations need help coming back to life. If their head is severed from the rest of their body, for example. What happens to those who die alone, with no friends or family to guide them back to life? How do they heal?

He may have gone through the process many times, death continues to terrify him. Not necessarily the act of dying, but the void that settles in his mind afterwards. He can never remember what happens between dying and coming back to life. What would happen if he truly were to die? Would he be aware he was dead? Would it be like when he sleeps, an abyss of unconsciousness until he woke up again? But since he wouldn't wake up, he would remain unaware for eternity. What would that be like? The questions creep into his mind and sink their claws into his brain, keeping him awake when night falls.

If only he believed in something. Some omnipotent deity, a reassuring religious concept, his own conception of death. Anything to make the nothingness death entails bearable. He knows Norway still believes in the old myths, although he occasionally vanishes on Sunday mornings and wears a golden cross in his hair. What comforts do his beliefs provide?

Who can he approach with these fears? Denmark is notoriously bad at providing an answer adapted to modern society. Norway would see through him, detect an underlying issue he would try to help him with instead. Finland worries too much, and Sweden... no. It doesn't feel like something he can share with Turkey either, or with his friends.

So he keeps his fears to himself. He's not a child anymore, it's silly to worry about these kind of things... The excuses pile up, but do nothing to smother his worries.

Because it has happened, for a nation to die and never return. The Roman Empire, Germania, Britannia... Every nation has heard of the ancients who once ruled the world but have long since vanished from the surface of the Earth. Nations like to comfort themselves by pointing out the state of their lands when they disappeared. Things are different nowadays. They point out how alive Prussia is, despite his dissolution, failing to see or ignoring how frequently he catches a cold, how slowly he now heals.

Apparently Iceland's multitude of worries are normal. Teenage hormones. They all go through it at some point or another. Still, the constant self-doubt bothers him, leads him to write these feelings down. At first, concerns and doubts flourish as metaphors and verses, lyrical and poetic. Then, as time passes, he adds a rhythm and melody to them, sublimes his pulsions to art. He keeps his newfound hobby secret from everyone but Turkey. He doesn't need anyone requesting a song from him.

He can't deny how tempting it is to join in when his northern family play, however. Norway and Denmark can be heard the most often, weaving intricate melodies that express what words never will, alternating between piano and cello, or violin and cello. Occasionally, Sweden joins them, adding a double bass to their song. Other times, Denmark and Finland shake the walls using only a set of drums and an electric guitar until someone gets a headache and asks them to stop. Iceland isn't sure what his acoustic guitar could bring to the mix, convinces himself his skills are nowhere near good enough to mingle with their talent.

Do human teenagers feel this way too? Do they worry about death as much as he does? Do they lose sleep because no matter how hard they try, they never seem to fit in? Do they look at the people who raised them and wonder how they'll ever be as inspiring as them?

Iceland often finds himself wishing things were simpler. If only he were a human, he thinks, free of the responsibilities of nationhood. He would live with Denmark, or maybe Norway. Perhaps they'd all live together, one big happy family, with no one killing each other because power wouldn't be an issue. What would life be like?

Denmark would work with children, he imagines. An entertainer of some sort, or a sports teacher for middle schoolers. He'd arrive to work five minutes early, to set a good example, and would come home with amusing tales of the shenanigans he'd seen.

Norway would live as far away from society as he could. Research, most likely. Maybe he'd record rare fauna and flora in desolate but beautiful places around the world. He'd return home every few months, grumbling because the local university had asked him to do a lecture. Perhaps he'd make more sense, smile more, stop talking to his imaginary friends. But, in that case, would he still be the Norway Iceland loves today?

Sweden would live in a small cabin somewhere, a small skiing resort maybe. He'd craft sculptures and furniture out of wood and sell it to tourists and locals alike. It wouldn't bring in much money, just enough for him to support Sealand and Ladonia, and live a quiet life.

Finland would design children's toys. He'd bring back faulty toys occasionally, a stuffed bear missing an ear, a toy car whose wheels got stuck every now and again, and give them to Sealand and Ladonia. He'd help out at local charities, convince the whole family to get involved.

Sealand and Ladonia would be normal kids. They'd go to school, get in trouble at least once a week, hang out with their friends... young and carefree.

And Iceland... Iceland would study geology, or literature. He'd study in the library all day before going out to the pictures with his friends in the evening. He'd complain about his peculiar family, laugh at terrible jokes and memes, not once worry about his mortality.

And they'd grow old, succeed in life, then their skin would wrinkle, their joints would ache, and eventually Iceland would be left to age alone, as all humans eventually are.

Maybe it's better to be a nation after all. Sometimes, at least.

* * *

The Nordics meet up a few months later, choosing to stay in one of Norway's isolated cabins in the woodlands. There's both little and much to do in such a quiet, secluded place. Hiking, birdwatching, swimming in the lake, so many outdoor activities that when it finally rains, they're taken by surprise.

Denmark suggests they build things out of Lego until the rain lets up. A silly idea, though only Iceland protests. As is always the case for them, the casual activity soon turns competitive, until they're trying to outdo each other, determined to reproduce an impressive building of their lands that will astound the others.

It rains for the remainder of the afternoon, pittering down to a light drizzle when night falls. Sweden manages to get the television working again, and they spend the evening watching a nature documentary, playing a game of "where was that shot taken?". They share tales after dinner, epic quests they've partaken in, myths of ancient creatures only they still recall. They muse about how much the world has changed, how much it will continue to change in the future. They laugh over amusing events that happened years ago, share accounts of animals they've seen more of lately.

Iceland and Norway stay up later than the others. They sit in silence on the same sofa, one writing while the other reads. No unnecessary questions break the veil of silence that covers them, content with each other's company. Iceland is the first to retire to his room, bids his brother a goodbye he isn't sure he hears.

Odd, how his bedroom never changes, even after all these years. The last time he came here, he was only a colony, not yet rid of his child-like body, and yet the same toys he used to play with stand tall on the shelves, dusted and tended to with care. His old books line the bookcase, fairytales and other stories his brother used to read at bedtime. The familiar objects bring back memories, both pleasant and unpleasant, and he suddenly realises how much he's changed, too.

The next morning, he finally musters the courage to approach Denmark with his worries, waiting until Sweden and Finland have taken the micronations to the lake, and Norway's disappeared who-knows-where as is his custom.

"Aren't you afraid we're going to die someday?"

Denmark pauses in his activity, resting his axe across his knees as he pats for Iceland to join him on the step. The morning sun slips through the gaps in the trees, warms their faces in the chilly morning air. The forest truly is peaceful this time of day.

Denmark waits until he's comfortably seated before answering. He doesn't seek to reassure the young nation, doesn't create pretty white lies who beauty will quickly fade away. Instead, he asks a simple question, one that shatters the walls Iceland never realised he'd set up.

"You okay, Ice?"

No, he isn't. He isn't okay, because things are changing constantly and have changed too quickly over the past several hundred years. He's grown into a young adult, so close to leaving his teenage body behind, so now he worries about growing old and fading away like the Ancients have. Now he's nearing Norway's physical age, he wonders how much longer until he stops aging, how much longer until his family have outstayed their welcome in this world. He's scared they don't realise just how much he cares for them anymore, because he's too old for hugs and "I love you"s. He's uncomfortable with the love he feels for them, because they abandoned him over and over again. Shouldn't he hate them?

He isn't okay because he doesn't fit in. His ash-grey hair and lilac pupils cause people to stare. His language, though not as alien as Finland's, feels foreign compared to Swedish, Danish or Norwegian, as though it hasn't evolved as much. His hobbies don't match those of his family. They don't always understand his sense of humour. He'll never be as strong as Denmark, as eloquent as Norway, as imposing as Sweden, as kind as Finland. He no longer has the excuse of youth to forgive his mistakes. He's Iceland: awkward, normal yet weird, and so unlike any of them.

But how can he put those thoughts into words? How could anyone take him seriously when he spouts what they'll see as nonsense?

Thus, he denies everything with a shrug.

But Denmark understands, because Iceland resembles Norway more than he realises.

His words engulf the teenager in a blanket of warmth, honest and heartfelt. They fill the cracks in his composure, wash away the dark thoughts with their light. Apologies are uttered into his ear, compliments shoot him straight in the heart. They mention the cruel memories of the past, elaborate on the endless possibilities the future brings.

Iceland is Iceland, and that's a good thing. Imagine if he was more like England? or America? How annoying would that be? Iceland is fire and ice, earth and sky, just as much of a Nordic as the rest of them.

Iceland admits he plays the guitar, writes music he keeps to himself. Denmark urges him go fetch it, strum a few chords, play a few melodies. He adds a beat to the music, tapping his foot against the step and his fingers against the handle of his axe. See? The music says. We're not so different after all. You're not an outcast. You fit in perfectly.

When the music finally trails away, when no more soothing words come out of Denmark's mouth, the older nation promises to keep their conversation secret. He doesn't pressure Iceland with pointless suggestions, simply reminds him that he'll always be there if Iceland needs to chat in the future.

It may not seem like much, but it's enough.

They're an odd family, really. Denmark is unbearably loud and nosy, Norway makes no sense whatsoever, and Finland and Sweden take turns playing the responsible one and the "how in god's name have you survived this long?" one. And yet, strangely enough, they work, just about. When Norway pesters him in the evening to acknowledge him as an older brother, he yells at him until his face turns red, but knows he means no harm by it. None of them can be replaced, none of them would even think of replacing him.

And perhaps someday they'll be swallowed by the ocean, left to drift for eternity in the abyss, unaware of their very existence, but for now, their hearts beat with the lives of their people. And, really, isn't that enough?


End file.
